


ador(n)ed

by jillyfae



Series: Sweetest of All Sounds [16]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Even more than usual, F/M, Interstitial Fiction, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-20 06:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12426660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: On Meghan Vael's locket, and grief, and recovery, and what it means to be family. (Also how people falling in love can be kind-of stupid about it.)





	1. Starkhaven

**Author's Note:**

> as this fic deals with the aftermath of the massacre of the Vaels, there are references to child death, blood, etc.

There was an official Chantry delegation traveling from the Grand Cathedral to Starkhaven.

Sebastian wasn’t with it.

They wouldn’t be here ‘til the morrow, at the earliest.

He hadn’t wanted to wait.

More than that, he hadn’t wanted Chantry formality to be his only claim for this, his first visit back.

To the place that had never really been home, but he’d clung to tooth and nail nonetheless.

He’d clung much too long to all his dreams of what could have, should have, might have been.

The Grand Cleric’s mouth had thinned when he’d asked for personal leave, rather than taking his place with the Mother and Sisters already assigned to the trip, but she’d sighed, and considered.

He’d received a private invitation, after all. He could see the thoughts shift behind her eyes, the politics of his former rank versus his current place. It would serve, his presence, perhaps even more if he was a private guest still draped in formal sunburst robes.

He would serve.

They both knew it, and her face had eased into something almost a smile as she granted his request.

But for all he knew his duty to her, to his place back in Kirkwall, he wasn’t here for the Chantry.

He was here for the painful twist of hope that had caught in his chest when he’d seen the formal Starkhaven crest on a letter addressed to  _him._

He’d apparently never quite outgrown the awkward hope of his eight-year-old self, that maybe, this time, it would be different.

Despite not knowing which  _it_  he meant.

Certainly the Keep never changed. His parents would be the same. He didn’t care about his place within the Court, not anymore.

Though it would be respectable, at last.

_Grandfather would have been relieved._

He felt something almost a smile curve his lips, and let the dull ache of memory fade.

Starkhaven was larger than he remembered, sprawling out beyond the old city walls. Smaller though too, somehow, the buildings’ shadows too short, familiar corners appearing several steps too soon.

The markets were busier than he’d expected, and not all of it from the influx of visitors; the long-desired birth of the Principality’s next Heir was an important enough event to inspire formal visitors from everywhere from Rivain to Orlais.

Starkhaven had done well for itself without him.

Probably much better than it would have with him around causing distractions and scandals and attempting to drain the treasury at every tavern along the Minanter and the Trade Roads.

He wondered if the  _guarda_  on duty would remember him, as he used to be, if they still told tales of his disgraces. It had been ten years; new gossip should have supplanted his adventures.

Except maybe the time with the goat and the Rivaini Ambassador? That had gotten poor Lieutenant Seanan unexpectedly promoted to make up for Captain Lorne’s sudden departure.

He wondered if she’d stayed. If she was still Captain, or if she’d made it up to Commander. She had always been very good at her job. And somehow still managed to be kind, no matter how difficult he made things for her.

His fingers wanted something to  _do,_  but he restrained them, beyond one final tug at his robes, straight and smooth, a quick pat against the sharp edges of a small box inside the side pouch of his pack, his Grandmother’s locket finally on its way back home again, just like the man carrying it.

He was here for a reason, not just memories.

Though those weren’t all bad; he could visit Grandfather’s plaque tonight, light a candle or some incense, tell him how the last decade had treated him.

Perhaps Grandfather would be proud, even, but first he had to make it up the hill to the gate.

His smile widened, honest amusement at last.

He’d still been dragging his heels at the thought of tall heavy walls and hard marble floors.

But it would be different this time.

He was different, now.

It would be enough.


	2. these tears will run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> child death cw

"Well, I didn't know he could shoot like _that_." The soft purr from right beside her felt like nails down her spine, a shiver of almost pain. “Why didn’t we invite him down into the Deep Roads with us?”

Adelaide couldn't seem to think of an answer to that, still stunned by the display of emotion from a man who'd always seemed so self-contained, still trying to wrap her head around what had inspired it... _his entire family?_

“Must you, Isabela?” Aveline sighed from behind them both. “It sounds like the poor man has enough to worry about without you harassing him.”

“What?” Isabela rolled her eyes, before turning to smile at Hawke. “He could keep darkspawn off my back anytime."

Hawke's voice caught in her throat, words failing entirely in favor of a strangled sort of whine of dismay.

Isabela, of course, only laughed, though it was soft enough to not be unkind. "Aw, poor Hawke must be jealous, I think I broke her."

“Did you really?” Merrill tilted her head to peer at Adelaide's face. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you make a sound like that. Are you alright?”

“You know perfectly well that he's _Brother_ Sebastian.” Adelaide answered Isabela, trying desperately to ignore Merrill’s curious stare. “As in, vows of poverty and chastity and obedience and all those other things you think are boring?"

She could hear her own voice rise, more than the question possibly deserved. She swallowed hard when she'd finished speaking.

“Those weren’t robes he was wearing, sweetness.” _Oh, Maker’s Breath, she’s never going to let me live this down._ “Maybe you should double check on that Brother status of his.”

Adelaide grunted.

Isabela lifted one eyebrow, slow and graceful, a disturbingly eloquent opinion on Hawke's inability to manage any sort of comeback.

Retreat seemed to be in order.

Adelaide turned and stalked over to the Chanter’s Board, chin held high, trying to ignore the heat she could feel flushing her cheeks.

_I am annoyed at Isabela. I am not embarrassed. She is not right. I am not jealous._

_I am angry._

_I am heart-broken._

_His poor family._

That was enough to settle the coil in her gut.

This was endlessly more important than her discomfort over Isabela's teasing.

“Grand Cleric?” The older woman's hand was flat against the chanter's board, fingers spread below the arrow that was still quivering slightly from the force of its impact. She was silent long enough for Adelaide to draw in two breaths, to wonder how very much of a bad idea this was, before she slowly lowered her hand and turned her head, face still and composed.

"Yes, my child?"

"I was hoping I could," Adelaide gestured awkwardly at the parchment. "May I see that?"

"It is a mercenary matter," Elthina's voice was cool. "Hardly befitting the Chanter's Board."

""I would like to read it for myself, regardless." _Isn't the whole point of the Chanter's Board to deal with mercenary matters?_ "Your Grace," she added a breath later.

She could've sworn the Grand Cleric's jaw tightened, as if she wished to disagree, but instead she simply stepped back with a very slight nod of her head.

It was difficult to read the words, the tone of the notice couched in the straightforward tones of the notice board, lacking Sebastian's usual soft charm. Not that anyone could have made the massacre of an entire family and the request for aid in hunting down mercenaries into a charming sort of letter.

"He is contemplating murder." The Grand Cleric's tone was cool and flat when Hawke finally lifted her gaze from the paper she was holding. "He would spend gold to buy men’s lives, that makes him no different..."

"He won’t have to spend any gold," Hawke interrupted, her voice low and rough. _Of course he’s different!_ "Because I will help him, as his friend, because what they have done to the Vaels is wrong, and I don’t want them coming after him next."

She turned and stalked away before she said something _else_ she’d regret to the Grand Cleric of the Free Marches, his notice still gripped tight between her fingers. Even if the woman deserved it. _Dismissing the massacre of an entire family because she doesn’t want her precious Brother getting his hands dirty. There are some things you can’t let pass by without action, and she ought to know it._

* * *

Hawke paused in the doorway, glancing into the open study provided for the Chantry’s guests, empty but for Sebastian bent over the desk under the window, quill scratching across parchment, a scowl dark across his brow. She felt her heart clench at the gleam of his armor, the bow resting next to him in easy arm’s reach.

It shouldn't seem so shocking to see him in something besides his Brother's robes. It wasn't a common occurrence, but she'd seen him serving in Lowtown before, armed and armored. Though it was different, now, to know it wasn't just for an errand. It hurt to think about all he'd lost, his place in life, his family ... but his armor fit him well, nonetheless.

 _He_ fit well, in the world outside the Chantry walls, which was a terrible thought to have, as if there could be some slight gift in the tragedy that had befallen his family, that she could see him as more than just ...

"Brother Sebastian?"

"Not anym --" Sebastian’s tired voice paused mid-word and he glanced up, expression blank for a moment in obvious surprise. "A - Serah Hawke!" He smiled, though it was a pale shadow of the cheerful grin she’d surprised out of him on a few occasions during the past year, and he stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly across cold stone.

The noise seemed to echo across the room as he stopped, whatever movement he’d intended awkwardly aborted as he simply nodded his head. “When Bartrand returned alone, I’d feared the worst. I’m glad you made it back.”

“Bartrand?” Hawke’s voice sharpened, her own curiosity lost beneath a shot of rage as she stepped forward eagerly. “He came back to Kirkwall? Where is he?”

“No one knows. He left again almost immediately. If anyone’s telling more than that, I haven’t heard.” Sebastian’s eyes flickered, his gaze aimed briefly at the desk beside him before returning to her face. “Not that I’ve been listening for news regarding Tethras. I have had... other... concerns.”

"I’m so sorry." Hawke stepped forward again, echoing his earlier awkwardness, wanting to offer comfort, a touch, a hug, but not sure how such familiarity would be received. "I saw, in the Courtyard..." She held up the note he’d tried to post, the rip from the arrow large enough for light to shine through from the window to her left. "I’d like to help."

"My notice?" The distance hovering between them was eaten up in two long strides as Sebastian surged forward and pulled it from her hand. "You saw it? I was sure El-- the Grand Cleric was going to take it down."

"She was." Hawke’s hand fluttered slightly as she almost reached out, then dropped her arm to her side again, fingers loose and empty. “I took it.”

“Why?” Sebastian’s eyes were cold, his stare hard, a completely different man than the one she’d bid farewell to a few short weeks ago.

“So I could help you?”

“No one else in all the Marches seems to want anything to do with me, or care that my entire family is dead. Why do you?”

“Bro-”

“I’m not Brother Sebastian anymore!” Sebastian’s pained shout was harsh, tearing through his throat to fill the room.

It startled her enough Hawke almost took a step back, eyes widening in sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You know I keep losing my family, piece by piece, and I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.” She bit her lip, wishing there was something she could say that would help. _Nothing ever does._ "Especially not someone I consider a friend."

She saw his jaw flex, as if he wanted to say something else, but he didn't, shifting back on his feet as he waited for her to continue.

"You shouldn’t be alone, you’re an easy target for anyone who wants to finish the job. I can fight, and between us, Aveline and Varric and Isabela and Fenris and I know just about every guardsman, merc, and pirate on the Wounded Coast. We can help you track the men who did this, and then we can help you find out who hired them. Give us someone to fight, and we’ll fight with you. I promise.”

Sebastian’s brilliant blue eyes closed, and he turned back toward the desk with an audible swallow. “I think you’re a better friend than I deserve. Thank you, Serah Hawke.” He slowly placed his note down on the desk, carefully smoothing it flat against the hard surface before turning back towards her.

“You deserve a lot better than me,” Adelaide sighed, “but you’re welcome.” It was her turn to swallow uncomfortably. “There’s something else I have to tell you, though, that might make you change your mind.”

_Maker’s Breath, this is a bad idea._

“That seems unlikely.” A hint of his old sense of humor softened his face, and Sebastian stepped back into the room, gesturing at the collection of old-mismatched armchairs that had gathered by the fireplace. “Have a seat. Tell away.”

Hawke paused to carefully swing the door closed, wishing there was a way to lock and bar and barricade it, just in case. _Have to settle for closed, unfortunately._ “All I ask,” she had to stop and swallow and start again, her voice having caught in her throat, a sudden desperate ache to swallow, to breathe, to _stop_. “All I ask,” she managed as she turned back around to face him, “is that you wait a day before, well, just, before. Anything.”

Head cocked and eyebrows raised at her incoherence, Sebastian nodded, the slightest shift of his chin as he acquiesced.

“Well then.” She paused, uncertain how to begin, before she slid her staff off her back, holding it in front of her to stare at her pale fingers wrapped around the dark wood. “I’m not really all that good with this thing, did you know? My father knew just enough to teach me how to hold it, a couple moves to practice so I’d get calluses in the right places, be able to scare off your average bully with a sweep or two. I've gotten better, but I do the most damage when I've got surprise on my side.”

“But..” Sebastian interrupted, his voice trailing off in surprise. “Even I heard... There were rumors at Serah Lirene’s about how Athenril was pushing to get you to join up for good, when your contract was up.”

“Ah, but Athenril has friends in the Templars. Knows just who to keep happy to ensure they didn’t look too closely at her... activities.”

“The Templars, not the Guards?” His voice cut off abruptly as he figured it out, taking one quick step backwards before he made himself stand very, very still. “Apostate?”

“Like my father. And my sister.” She couldn’t make herself look up from her staff again, afraid of what she’d see in his face. “He made sure we were properly trained. He couldn’t technically perform a Harrowing all by himself, but he swore he’d turn us into the Circle himself if we couldn’t learn control. Too dangerous, otherwise. So we learned.” _And left Carver and Mother behind, and they never really forgave us. And now I’m the only one left._ She closed her eyes against the twist of nausea, Carver’s loss still too new to hide in the same well of grief that held Bethany and her father.

“Hawke,” his voice was surprisingly soft. “What is it?” She glanced through damp eyelashes towards his face, startled to find no fear or anger or disappointment, but only compassion softening his eyes.

It burned too much, his kindness, more than she'd ever expected, more than she could ever deserve, and she just shook her head, her next breath too deep and ragged to be anything other than a sob, cheeks wet with tears, lips stinging with the salt.

He reached out, his hand pausing for an instant before he grasped her arm, tugging gently as he guided her back towards the chairs. She almost stumbled, but he aimed her carefully towards a seat, and settled next to her, still holding her hand as she cried.

“Shhh. Hawke. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“C-- Carver.” She swallowed, tried and failed to steady her breath enough to make her voice even. “There were... too many darkspawn, and he... ”

“Ah, no.” Sebastian's fingers tightened around her own, and she closed her eyes, spared a single heart-beat to nothing else beyond the feel of his hands, his skin against her own.

She swallowed.

"Anders knew of an expedition. Grey Wardens. But they couldn't promise?" She sniffed, felt her fingers shift against his. "We don't know, we won't know ... " Her voice trailed off and she shrugged.

"If he even survived?"

She nodded. "Mother didn't want him to go, did you know that?"

"Ah," Sebastian's response was more breath than voice, but it soothed nonetheless, so soft in the air between them.

"He never would’ve forgiven me if I’d left him behind, and he is... was.. _is_ as good with that damn sword as he thought." Her voice broke. "As he thinks he is.”

She slid her hand free of his grasp and rubbed bruisingly hard against her eyes, trying to wipe all trace of her tears away. “I’m sorry, here I am crying like a baby, when my mother’s waiting for me at home, and you, when everyone.” She swallowed, unsure how to ask something she was quite sure she didn’t want to know. Remembered him talking of the Naming he'd gone to, the way his voice had softened every time he mentioned the newest Meghan Vael. “Your note said down to the... youngest babe. Does that mean your niece?” She couldn’t finish, as she watched his body tense, his eyes close on his own pain, his head bow.

“I wouldn’t believe them, when the messengers came."

It was her turn to reach out, a loose clasp around his hands. Her turn to breathe, and wait, until he could go on.

"I followed them back to Starkhaven." Sebastian lifted his head, his eyes too wide, too pale, his face too still despite the shadows beneath his eye, his jaw. "I’d known one of the guardsmen on duty since we were lads, hiding in the hayloft to avoid our chores together. I made him show me everything. The bodies." He stopped. It was a pause she was familiar with, over the years, simple truths too hard to say. "They'd already been cremated, the Service over." Sebastian's voice dropped, too low for comfort, almost too low to hear at all. "But they hadn’t finished cleaning the rest of the Keep yet. The stones, the carpets, the tapestries ..."

He had to stop to swallow again, and she leaned closer. Waited. It didn't seem possible that it was going to get worse, but it would, she knew, she could feel it, could feel the barest shiver in his arms.

"Her cradle. Dark stains in the wood... he said... they’d slit – it, she, they."

Adelaide felt her throat constrict, _no, oh no, just a child._

"There was nothing soft left in her room. Too much ... blood. Soaked into everything. Even her swaddling clothes, too much to clean, they’d had to burn them with her." He swallowed, again, hard enough she saw his throat flex with it, his nostrils flaring as he held himself still, forced himself to breathe once, and twice, and yet again. His grip was too tight, her fingers were starting to ache, but she leaned into it, gripped as firmly back as she could.

“They took her locket." He paused again, voice light with a terrible pale bewilderment, before he shook his head, and met her eyes for just a moment, until the weight was too much and they dropped again, looking at their clasped hands in his lap instead. "The Naming gift I’d given her, the one from my Grandmother. I couldn’t even have that." His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Nothing left of value to remember any of them by. Nothing.”

She leaned forward slowly, resting her forehead against his, both pretending to ignore ragged breaths and the fall of tears. She had no idea how long they sat there, resting, though they’d both stopped crying by the time he sniffed and lifted his head. “Trials, is it?”

Adelaide blinked a moment in surprise, before she realized by the slight thrum in the back of her throat that she’d been humming. “I guess?" She coughed, felt her throat settle. "I think I always sing that one when I’m upset. My favorite Canticle.”

“Mine too.” He sighed, softly, looking down at their fingers, still wrapped together. “And I appear to have decided I value your friendship more than your... talents. I am apparently not nearly as good a Brother as I thought I was.” His voice was low and bitter, and something in her chest twisted, tight and sore.

_Or you’re more interested in the compassion Andraste asks us to show our fellows then judging them as some would have us do._

She didn't think he'd listen, if she tried to say as much. "You’re a good man, Sebastian, and I’m sorry for putting you in such a difficult position.”

“I can’t promise I can keep your secret forever, Hawke.” Sebastian finished sitting up, his fingers sliding out of hers and settling in his own lap. She tried to ignore how cold her hands felt, fingers curled around thin air, resting alone. “I can promise that I will tell you before anyone else, if I find the situation changes.”

“I can accept that.” Hawke smiled slightly. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you." He smiled at her, and she felt tears prick at the back of her eyes again, burn in the back of her throat, at how sad his eyes were, above the curve of his mouth. "Thank you, for offering to help, when no one else would. It means... everything to me. Finding out who, and why... it’s all I have left.”

“Then we’ll find out. And we’ll stop them.”


	3. pain

Hawke had found it. Sebastian still couldn't quite believe it, despite the feel of the chain wrapped around his fingers, the light weight of the locket cupped in the middle of his palm, pale against the dark leather of his glove.

There was a darkness between the links, a stain at the loop, thick and dry and tough, preventing the chain from sliding through, preventing the pleasant shimmer of silver that had always delighted him as a child when his Grandmother had leaned down to give him a kiss. But it was undeniably the same locket, the faint tracery of a bloom of Andraste's Grace visible across the curved lid, the locket itself surprisingly free of grime or fingerprint. Or blood.

_Thank you._

He moved his lips, but no sound came out. Hawke leaned slightly closer, fingers lightly brushing against his wrist. "Are you alright, Sebastian?"

"Of course."

His voice was rough; he couldn't even recognize it. There was a strand of hair, caught in the blood, wrapped around the chain, pale and shimmering in the sunlight on the Coast.

_They hadn't even cleaned off her blood._

He swallowed, fingers tightening into a fist, the loop of chain digging into his knuckles as his hand clenched tight. His arm dropped to his side as he pretended desperately he still remembered how to breathe. Pretended he couldn't feel the ache all the way down his neck from a jaw clenched much too tight. Pretended his heart wasn't a dark and twisted thing, so very far from the Maker's Light.

Pretended he wasn't secretly glad of that, pretended he didn't want to kill them all _again and again, until their bodies cover the ground, thicker than soot, than memory._

_Until I can forget..._

He would never forget the sight of the Keep, ransacked and empty, smelling of smoke, thick and black, from all the things too blood-soaked to be cleaned, burning behind the midden heap outside the Walls.

"Sebastian," Hawke's voice was quieter this time, though she did not attempt to touch him again. "We'll find out who hired them, I promise."

"I know." _We have to find them all._ He couldn't bear to look at her, to look at any of them, couldn't even manage to thank them for their help in tracking down the Flint Company's encampment. He turned, too sharp to stay steady, sand sliding beneath his boots as he stalked back towards Kirkwall. He had ledgers to study, mercenaries to track. They would not escape him.

But neither could he escape Hawke, her sharp whistle as she called her mabari to heel, waved the rest of her mismatched, dangerous crew into line, and followed him down the Coast. He could hear their footsteps, the quiet hum of voices just far enough away he didn't have to listen to them.

Didn't have to talk. Didn't have to to try and tell them about his niece, Meghan, named after his Grandmother. Didn't have to remember how she'd tried to grab the locket as it spun, catching the light when he presented it to her mother for her Naming Day gift.

Barely more than a year ago.

In the last letter he'd received, before...

In the last letter he'd ever receive, (the one folded very carefully into the top drawer of his dresser, wrapped in a bright blue silk kerchief he wasn't supposed to own, stolen from his mother's room, protected and safe and never to be read again for fear he wouldn't be able to control himself and his fingers would clench and those final words would tear), his sister-in-law had mentioned that young Meghan had figured out it was a necklace, that it was something pretty, that it was _hers,_ and had insisted on wearing it every day.

She apparently also tried to eat it at meals, and banged it hard against the polished floors whenever she wanted someone to open it so she could look at the tiny portrait of her namesake inside.

He was afraid to fix the latch on the locket itself, afraid to open it, afraid of what he'd see inside, of what was left of his Grandmother's memory, of his niece. 

The clasp on the chain was broken now, twisted and warped from when the mercenaries had ripped the necklace off her dead body. 

She'd probably still been warm, blood wet and hot and red, blue eyes empty as she'd stared up at the ceiling, never again to see the flying birds her Uncle Matthias had carved for her, dancing as they spun in their mobile.

They'd killed her in her bed. He'd seen the stains across the wood, soaked into the grain, before he'd been hustled back out onto the road. He'd asked for the mobile, to remember them by, and been denied. _Where would a Brother keep such a thing?_

They'd already held the services for his parents and his brothers and their wives and their children, even Corbinian's draconian mother-in-law. She'd descended on them shortly after the wedding and had been cheerfully terrorizing the housekeeping staff for just over a decade; _she wasn't even a Vael, and they killed her too._

All of them gone and burned and prayed over before he'd even made it back to Starkhaven.

They hadn't let him say goodbye.

They'd sworn they were _dealing_ with the situation, that he didn't need to worry, that he should go back to his duties and pray for them, and thank you for the visit, _Brother_ , and did he need to borrow a horse or an escort for the ride back?

He didn't need a horse.

_He didn't need a fucking horse._

But at least he had the locket. He'd take it back, clean it, repair it. Care for it, as he'd never been allowed to care for _them._ Maybe eventually that would bring comfort, rather than another twist of guilt tightening below his stomach, killing his appetite and tainting his dreams.

Maybe.

Someday.


	4. The Riddle Song

> _I gave my love a cherry without a stone._

Adelaide didn't usually sing in public.

Not that the roof of the Estate was _public,_ but she knew it would carry. Hoped it would carry far enough, long enough, to walk him home as he had walked her.

As he always walked her.

> _I gave my love a chicken with nary a bone._

He'd been restless through-out their usual game. Hadn't jumped when Norah got bumped and her entire tray’s worth had slipped and slid to the floor, crashing and shattering glass and ceramic and ale spreading across the floor. He hadn't even smiled at her impressive diatribe; it had included variations on  _fucking blighters_  in four different languages.

He _had_ lost quite stunningly.

That wasn't normal.

Hawke drank too much, while trying (and failing) not to watch only him.

That was very normal.

> _I gave my love a baby that ne'er does cry._

He didn’t carry the locket around with him, though sometimes she would watch him pause, his hand half-way to his throat, as if he expected it to be there.

As if he wished it was.

As if it would help, but he couldn’t quite bear to give himself the comfort.

> _I gave my love a story without end._  

She knew he wouldn’t accept comfort from her either.

Or anyone else.

She settled, as often as she could, for  _distraction._

> _How can there be a cherry without a stone?_

The Hanged Man and cards and bad drinks and good music.

Well, sometimes it was good music. The type of minstrels willing to play in Kirkwall were the type usually running from something. Sometimes they were very good and had pissed someone off; sometimes they were  _very bad_  and no one else would have them.

Even bad music was better than nothing at all.

> _How a chicken with nary a bone?_

There hadn't been any music tonight. Tonight there had been nothing beyond the muttering of people and the clink and clank of glass and ceramic mugs and bottles hitting each other or tapping down against wood tables and bars. One bright crash too short to be intriguing.

Nothing left too much room for thinking.

She needed to  _do_  something.

> _How can there be a baby that ne'er does cry?_

Not that there was anything to be done.

She knew that. She knew. 

She understood, completely, entirely, an echo of her own familiar grief when she looked at him, the way it rose and fell, the way you felt better one day, and endlessly bitter the next, the way the very thing you’d always wanted,  _vengeance or justice or mercy?,_  didn’t ease your heart at all in those dim dark hours before you fell asleep.

> _How a story without end?_

It came and went, such sorrow.

He could smile at one of Lusine’s many charges in the morning… then retreat early to the Chantry that same night, a familiar tension between his shoulder-blades.

One afternoon he would laugh at one of her terrible jokes. (No one seemed to believe her that she knew precisely how awful her sense of humor was, but then again, none of them had ever met her father.) But the next day he wouldn’t even notice she’d said one, despite Fenris’ almost pained snort and the soft groans from everyone else.

> _A cherry blooming has no stone._

They’d found the Harimanns’ guilt, proved it, stopped it… but it didn’t solve any old regrets, heal any old wounds. It just meant the Vaels deaths stopped making new ones when remembered every morning.

That was never going to be enough.

> _A chicken still in egg needs nary a bone._

It hurt more to watch him suffer than it ever had to live through her own pain.

She carefully didn’t turn the obvious answer to  _that_  conclusion into an actual thought with words or sentences.

That wouldn’t help either.

> _A baby ne'er does cry when dreaming sweet._

But if she sang someone else's words, never claimed them as hers, never claimed them for him. Let them follow him in the dark, secret and soft.

Maybe that would be enough, enough to sooth, enough to ease. Enough to make it to tomorrow.

> _My love, my love for you, a story without end._


	5. "For Hawke!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inktober prompt: breakable http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/166744354813

They'd been careless.

He’d been too proud.

They'd dealt with the Flints.

They'd helped the newly promoted Captain Vallen clear out the Guardsmen Pretenders.

They hadn't worried about a straight shot through Hightown, even if they were a few hours later than they'd been planning. Even though Daryn had stayed at the Estate with Hawke's mother. Even though it had been over a moon since the last serious gang-fight, long enough for someone else to start organizing.

Which of course meant the newest pack of criminals thought taking on the jumpstart nobles who'd helped take out their predecessors was the best way to prove their reputations.

Hawke was a dangerous woman, but two against a dozen were questionable odds, even for her.

A shift in the shadows caught his eye, and he raised his gaze just enough to see reinforcements traveling along the rooftops towards them. _Make that two against two dozen. We're in very serious trouble._

Hawke had the current batch wary enough they were keeping their distance, so he focused on the newcomers. Perhaps he'd slow them down enough something would happen to change their luck.

That didn't seem to be very likely. Aveline had improved her Guard patrols considerably, and they were making an awful lot of noise, but no one had shown up. The new gang had either taken out the current Hightown guards already, or someone was going to get thrown in the brig on the 'morrow when Aveline discovered their failure to do their jobs. They'd quite possibly never see the light of day again.

Not that that helped him and Hawke _now._

They were managing to stay ahead of the mob, so far, trying to find a place to cut them off, as neither of them were at their best in close quarters. Hawke was knocking them down, and he was picking them off, but they weren't going to last much longer.

_We don't have to get much further either, though._

Almost up the last set of stairs, but then it would open out into one of Hightown's ubiquitous Courts, and they'd be easily surrounded and probably dead.

He didn't have any other ideas, however, as the back entrance to the Estate was accessible from the far side of that next Court. Hawke obviously didn't have any clever plots either, judging from the set of her shoulders.

It ached, how much he wished he could ease the faint line between her brows. How much he wished ... well. This was a singularly stupid way to die, after she survived her Expedition and won her mother's family home, and he outlasted a royal coup.

_Common thugs._

That was just _embarrassing._

He allowed himself a slight moment of pride as a particularly fine shot not only hit his target solidly, but knocked her body into the man behind her and sent them both sliding off a rooftop.

They'd made it to the stairs, and that was good. Narrow approach, no rooftops close enough for the gang to regroup on the higher ground. No way to secure either end, however, so they couldn't afford to stay and wait them out.

"Don't suppose you have a lyrium potion hiding in one of those pouches of yours, Sebastian?" Hawke's voice was steady, but her grip on her staff was a shade too tight to allow the illusion of calm.

"I must, most regretfully, admit myself unprepared for this eventuality."

She snorted softly at his formality, and he let himself smile at her for half a breath, before it was time to attempt the stretch of open space behind them.

They almost made it.

Almost wasn't good enough.

He had one brief moment, when they realized they'd been flanked, to wish, just once in his life, to have done better than _almost._

He was much too busy fighting to worry about almosts a moment later.

He didn't have enough arrows. He didn't have enough _space._

He swung his bow, heard it crack as it impacted a helmet, dropped it as the victim staggered back, giving him just enough time, enough room to pull out his knives.

He wasn't nearly as good with them as, say, Isabela.

He wasn't good enough to be Isabela's apprentice, really, if she was the sort to take one on, and now they were going to die.

Because he was an idiot, and hadn't paid attention to the time, and hadn't kept lyrium in his belt, and hadn't kept an eye out for a Guard patrol on their way home, or any of the other myriad _stupid_ decisions he'd made today that had led them here.

If he'd just condemned himself it wouldn't be so bad, but _Hawke._

He could not bear the thought of a world without her in it.

"I'm sorry," he spoke softly as he shifted his stance.

"I'm not," she whispered, and he caught her eyes, one shocked glance back, something dark and warm and almost soft, for just a breath, before she looked over his shoulder and narrowed her eyes and he felt something dark erupt behind him, a sick choke of a man caught in his worst nightmare before the thud of his body fell back amongst his comrades, sending them screaming and scrambling backwards, as his very touch spread the darkness amongst them.

Sebastian felt himself bare his teeth, a terrible fierce regret burning in his chest, so hot it was almost joy. He shifted his weight to abandon their small breath of calm, _just so,_ and felt flesh give, saw the bright edge of his blade darken with blood.

_For Hawke._

All of his decisions now were for Hawke.

He could only be sorry all he could give her was this, dark blood spilled on the cobbles around her, the scent thick enough to stick in the back of his throat.

But give it to her he would, blood and more blood, again, and again, _almost there,_ one slipped past his guard, and his side burned and his dagger slipped, the angle off, his grip uncertain, and he let it fall, felt himself fall with it, a hard knock of his knee against the stone beneath him, a harder gasp of air as he tried to breathe, _oh that's a bad one,_ not the worst he'd ever had, but close enough, _close enough to slow me down._

He managed to block the next swing with his arm, a skitter of steel against his vambrace, _that's a scratch I'm not going to get out,_ and all he could do was laugh, weak and ragged, as he waited for the next one, the one he couldn't block, couldn't dodge, laugh as he hoped that his blood would be enough to save Hawke, at least, at last.

Afraid it wouldn't, as it had never been enough before.

A flare of power behind him, around him, _as close as dancing,_ different than any of the spells he'd grown accustomed to, _how odd, accustomed to her magic,_ and the air shivered and his skin felt raw and the air was almost sweet for an instant, still and dark, and the last remnants of the gang flew back, away from him, Hawke's voice raised in something almost a snarl, almost a scream, and they staggered to their feet only to run, slipping away at last into the shadows on the far side of the Court.

"Well." Sebastian blinked at the ache in her voice, and tried to twist to look up at her as she spoke, but he hissed at the movement, and there was an unsteady step, _two,_ a hand on his shoulder, fingers squeezing, breath too loud by his side. "Shit." She thumped down beside him, ungainly and loud, clearly not on purpose, a hiss of breath before her chin lifted and she laughed, much as he had, weak and ragged and not quite bitter. "Didn't think that would work."

"Are you?" He reached out, couldn't quite figure out how to work his hand, his words, and was stuck with a tilted head and an ache in his chest, a burn between his ribs.

She started to shake her head, stopped, flapped a hand at him instead. "Fine. Dizzy? Hand."

He gave her his hand to hold, though he wasn't entirely sure he'd followed that properly, until he saw the glint of her teeth as she smiled at him, and her fingers wrapped tight, and the sudden familiar terrible rush of _green_ and heat and pain and relief that signified a healing.

Her smile widened, and then her eyes rolled back, too white in the gloaming, and everything hurt, sharp and sweet from his heart outward, but he managed to keep his grip and _tug,_ and she fell forward against his shoulder rather than back onto the cobbles.

"Hawke!"

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't find his hand, her heart, _not, no,_ but he felt the shift of her shoulders, heard the rough edge of her breath, and closed his eyes, wrapped his free arm around her.

_Adelaide..._

It took a few more moments for the metallic fizz of magic in his veins to settle, for the burn between his ribs to fade, for the sharp-edged grip of panic to ease.

She'd overtaxed, passed out. She'd told them all what to do with a mana-wiped mage, just in case, though he'd been convinced at the time she'd been planning for Anders, not herself.

It still hurt, sharp at the edge of each breath, each heart-beat, how close she'd come, saving him -- _not for me Hawke, please Andraste, don't let her --_ but however much he disagreed, she'd already done it, and once his heart recalled how to beat in something resembling a rhythm, it was time to go.

No reason to tempt fate _again._

Though it took three tries to figure out how to get her and her staff situated and him onto his feet. The world cooperated by only spinning a little, enough to be ignored.

His bow was a lost cause; he left it half beneath a body without a thought, a gleam of white and multiple curves that would never grace a wall, never send an arrow flying, never protect anyone again. He concerned himself instead with steadying his stagger as much as he could until he made it to the cut that led to her Estate's garden gate.

Hopefully Bodahn would hear if he gave it a good kick, as he didn't have the slightest clue how he'd manage to open it.

Bodahn didn't.

Daryn did.

_Such a good mabari._

Leandra's eyes widened as he finally made it inside, but she didn't say a thing, just followed along upstairs, the trip a blur of velvet and flickering firelight, Adelaide's weight slipping away from him to rest upon her bed, one clear memory of smoothing her hair back out of her face, spread across her pillow, everything else warm and hazy until he found himself sitting at last, a pillow behind his back and Hawke's boots neatly placed by the hearth, a lyrium potion and a covered class of juice on the bedside table for when she woke.

It hurt to swallow, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to listen to his heart beat in his ears.

It hurt more to stand, but if he didn't?

Leandra told him to stay, but he shook his head, and made himself walk out the door.

Made himself leave, because if he didn't now he never would, and he'd never forgive himself.

_Hold to the letter, if never the spirit._

He'd broken all his vows so long ago, but there was always more to lose. If he broke too many more times, he'd never be able to stand by her side again.

But that didn't mean he could pretend to lie to himself any longer.

He sighed as he finally made it back to the guest quarters at the Chantry. Glanced around at the only place he had, even if it wasn't his, never his, never home, _never without her,_ the space so cool and bare, white-washed stone and old dark wood. He turned his head, followed the glint of silver against brass, and lifted the locket from off of the candlestick on his dresser, the one bright splash of color in the room, soft red wax for those days he could not bear the weight of the chapel's walls around him and kept his morning prayers to himself rather than attend services.

Faith and family, that's what it had meant to him, when he'd worn it at his Grandmother's funeral, when he'd kept it hidden in his pocket when his parents sent him away so they couldn't take it back, when he'd carried it back to Starkhaven, gifted it to Corbin's daughter, passed back the one true present his family had ever given him, the one last tangible connection to who he'd wanted to be for them, who he'd wanted them to be for him.

Hope and promise.

He'd cleaned it after he'd gotten it back from the Flints, fixed the clasp, kept it close. It shone now, even as the shadows around it seemed darker every day, his Grandmother's accident, his niece's murder, blood and violence and tragedy.

He wanted to keep it buried in a drawer, safe and secure, he wanted to grind it under his heel, break the fragile graceful curve of it, all those promises of love and peace lost and shattered.

He wanted to see how it would look around Adelaide's neck, the soft shimmer of the chain against her skin, to see a symbol of his family, his life, passed on to the love he had found, the miracle of her standing before him, wearing _his gift._

He closed his eyes, swallowed 'til he could ignore the burn of unshed tears, the weight of every heartbeat making it clear how long it took. He opened them at last, reached out, let his fingers brush against the chain, watched the light glint and reflect as the locket swayed back and forth.

He owed her his life, time and time again. He could not taint such a gift by making her responsible for his heart, asking her to bear the weight of all his failures, all his grief. And for what? So he'd feel better before he crept away to his lonely cell?

She did not deserve that.

But it was so very hard to resist, every time she smiled, or the sunlight caught in her eyes, or he heard her softly singing to herself. Every time she smiled and shared a Fereldan story with the children at Lirene's, every time...

Every time he breathed.

He breathed out now, soft and shaking, almost a laugh, even as his eyes still burned. No good way to stop breathing, was there?

If he knew a way, he'd take it, for her. Until then he'd be selfish, follow along behind her for as long as he could bear, for as long as she would let him. For as long as he was breathing.


End file.
